


Early Morning Pancakes

by paleolithic_demitasse



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Authors Are Not Sorry, Authors Should Be Sorry, Crack, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, M/M, One Shot, Pancakes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-14 08:19:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3403571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paleolithic_demitasse/pseuds/paleolithic_demitasse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is awaken by a pancake craving Sherlock. Fluffy antics ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Early Morning Pancakes

**Author's Note:**

> This was collab between my friend and I written late at night, so we recommend taking the unbelievable quantities of fluff and crack in your metaphorical stride.

John wasn't quite sure what he was expecting to wake up too at 3 in the morning on a Tuesday. Previous causes of awakening had included the blaring noise of helicopter and police sirens, foul odours emitting from his floor, and windows that had been covered in blood.

None of them quite prepared him for the sight of a curly haired, shirtless man straddling him. Nor did it prepare him for the cold, metallic feeling of a gun between his eyes, being held by this (dare he say) handsome man.

No, those incidents hadn't prepared John Watson for this current situation at all. But some other thing must have, because all the tired man could do was sigh (not dramatically at all) and say,

“Sherlock, what are you doing.”

In response, his rather eccentric flatmate replied with a slightly defocused stare.

“I want pancakes John.”

“It’s 3.”

“Yes.”

“In the morning.”

“Yes.”

“And you want pancakes.”

“Yes.”

John let loose another sigh and ran a hand through his hair. Sherlock didn't move a muscle, continuing to gaze in a not completely present way at John’s face, his arm holding the gun steady to John’s forehead.

“Sherlock, remind me. When was the last time you slept?”

“It doesn't matter. Pancakes, John. Pancakes!”

This was being more tedious and more confusing by the second. John didn't understand why, of all foods he could possibly prepare for his infuriating flatmate at 3 in the bloody morning, the great Sherlock Holmes had a sudden, inexplicable craving for pancakes. John Watson had been witness to many puzzling scenarios, and on the odd occasion had helped shed light on said scenarios, but the case of why Sherlock had woken him up this early for _pancakes_ was something else entirely.

“Sherlock, why do you want pancakes? And why is it so important at _3 in the morning_?”

There was a short pause.

“It’s for a case.”

John sighed. This, at least, wasn't out of the ordinary.

“The last time you told me something was for a case, I ended up with a jumper completely covered in glitter and Mrs. Hudson was cleaning out fruitcake from every crack and crevice in our kitchen for weeks!”

This was not untrue.

“John, your jumper was far better looking in glitter than not. And Mrs. Hudson’s primary function around here is to assist me with such tasks as this.”

“You know, I'm fairly sure it-“

“John.”

“What.

“You are wasting time. I could be participating in the consumption of flat pastries currently, but you insist upon complicating a simple task.”

“I am not _complicating_ it Sherlock. I'm trying to work out whether I should be interrupted from a much needed sleep to do something as ridiculous as make you pancakes at 3 in the bloody morning. Why can’t you make them yourself? Find a recipe, and do what it says!”

“John, I'm fairly sure that trying to get back the hours of sleep you missed due to the discomfort of your sister’s couch hardly qualifies as a much needed sleep.” John noticed that he completely avoided the second part of the statement. “I hate to reiterate my former statement, but time is being wasted in this ridiculous argument. Make me pancakes.”

John Watson was not entirely sure at what point his life had become so centred around Sherlock Holmes, his arguably bat shit crazy flatmate, that what he was about to do was so natural and so thoughtless. It wasn't as if John could ever say no to him. John had realised long ago that Sherlock was the sun he orbited, and no words could express how content he was to be his best friend’s humble moon.

Shoving Sherlock off of him with a long suffering sigh, John slowly got up, his feet making contact with the uncomfortably cold floor, grumbling about the fact that he didn't even know how to make pancakes. Sherlock dropped the gun that he had stolen from John’s drawer in surprise. He scrambled after it, but was stopped by a hard glare from John, who was standing in the doorway of his room.

“Sherlock Holmes, I will get up, I will try out an old recipe and I will make you some God forsaken pancakes, all at the most ridiculous snacking hour you could possibly have chosen, but I refuse to do so at gunpoint. Come on, let’s go downstairs, you ridiculous-”

“Fine.”

John gave a nod, rolled his eyes, made a sound somewhere between a snort and a chuckle, and headed out the doorway of the room. Sherlock scrambled after him into the kitchen, where John got to work on making some pancakes from a half remembered recipe. His curly haired companion leaned awkwardly on the table for a couple of seconds, before John felt a single finger on his shoulder and turned around to an almost sheepish looking Sherlock.

John raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“John.” Sherlock said, sounding a bit awkward and not quite awake. “I was wondering if you would…Well…Could you possibly…maybe…”

“Sherlock.”

“Yes?”

“What do you want?”

“Erm…” Sherlock started again, nervously. “Couldyoupleaseputchocolatechipsinthem?”

John did not move a muscle. His expression did not change. He simply looked at his flatmate.

“You want chocolate chips. In your pancakes.”

“That is correct.”

For some reason, this sheepish request confused and shocked John more than the previous demand, the gun to his forehead. Sherlock Holmes had just asked for chocolate chips in his pancakes. At three in the morning.

There was a silence.

Sherlock looked at the floor, back to John’s disbelieving look, and back to the floor again, before he said again, “Andmaybeblueberriestoo.”

“Sherlock, what in hell has brought all this on? Pancakes at 3 in the morning is strange enough, but you know full well we don’t have chocolate chips in the flat, and the only fruit I ever bought was ruined by one of your bloody experiments! This is ridiculous, even for you.” The half made pancakes bubbled behind him in agreement.

“I – just, never mind. Go back to bed, John. It’s nothing, I'm sorry for awakening you. It was a stupid request.” Sherlock sounded defeated, an emotion that did not suit him well at all. His expression had gone from sheepish to void of any emotion at all, a poker face he had long ago mastered. However, John had lived with him long enough to know that this meant. Sherlock was hurt. He had hurt Sherlock, with his grumpy attitude and idiot remarks and now his best friend was shutting him out, like he shut out Anderson and Donovan when they insulted him at crime scenes.

“Sherlock, look, I didn't mean-“

“John, it doesn't matter.”

Sherlock turned briskly out of the kitchen and strode meaningfully towards his room. He was one long stride away from his door when he felt a strong grip on his arm. John turned him around, and when they were face to face, he looked pointedly at Sherlock, doing his best not to get lost in Sherlock’s frantic eyes. It was clear that Sherlock was on the verge of tears, and any words John had been planning on saying were lost in the vast sea of guilt that washed over him like a tidal wave.

“I'm sorry.”

John pulled Sherlock towards him, embracing him.

“I didn't mean to make you feel bad. I'm sorry that I got so worked up over something you did just because I didn't understand it – I mean, it’s not as if that’s unusual.” John was blabbering at this point and he knew it, so he stopped speaking.

For a long moment, neither said anything at all, simply enjoying the feel of being in each other’s arms. Not that this was something either STUPID FUCKING IDIOT WOULD ADMIT BECAUSE THEY ARE LITERALLY SO BAD AT COMMUNICATING.

Ahem. Disregarding the previous remarks of the narrator, the story shall continue.

John was the one who pulled away. He held Sherlock at arms length and gave him a small smile, which Sherlock returned nervously.

“I’ll make you pancakes if you want Sherlock. We don’t have any chocolate chips or blueberries, but if you know of any store opened at the 3:45 in the morning, you can go and get some.”

Maybe it was because of lack of sleep, or the dim lighting of the kitchen, but suddenly Sherlock’s carefully nonchalant face seemed to carry every emotion in the world. Happiness, surprise, and something that might possibly, at the right angle, be identified as love.

“None comes to mind. I’ll live.”

John’s smile became wider, and his grip on Sherlock’s shoulders tightened momentarily before he hurried back to his pancakes, which were completely uncooked on one side and a burnt mess on the other.

Sherlock stayed where he had been standing, looking at the suddenly unbearably empty space in front of him that had previously been occupied with one John Watson.

“Sherlock?” John asked from where he was flipping pancakes.

Jolted out of his stupor, Sherlock turned to look back at his companion. “Uh, yes?”

“What case required you to make pancakes at 3 in the morning?”

“Uh, well, it involves persons you haven’t ever heard mention of so-“

“Sherlock.”

An awkward pause.

“Yes?”

“There is no case, is there?”’

“I – no. No, that was a lie.”

Not that this information was new. John Watson was not, in fact, quite as unobservant as it suited _some people_ , naming no flatmates, to think.

“So… why pancakes?”

“I like pancakes.”

Another pause.

“Really? That’s it?”

“Really.”

“Alright then.”

John continued to prepare pancakes, scrapping the ones he had been in the midst of preparing which had been ruined due to neglect. Just as the first pancake was ready to be served, John realised that he has been tired enough to not get plates, and was now stuck with a fresh, ready pancake and nothing to put it on.

“Sherlock, could you pass me a-“

John spun around to make sure Sherlock was listening, and found himself nose to nose with his flatmate. His breath hitched, and he hoped with everything he had that Sherlock was too tired to notice the sudden increase in his pulse.

“…A plate.” He finished his sentence.

Sherlock was just looking at him, looking as surprised as John at being in this position, despite the fact that it was him who wandered up behind him.

Another pause came with John’s word, awkward and filled with stares and held breath.

“Of course.” Sherlock finally said, then reached up behind John’s head to the overhead cabinet, opened it and pulled out a plate, handing it to John with one hand, the other still reaching over John’s neck to hold the cabinet door open.

John was momentarily confused- or as confused as he could be whilst in this severely compromising position.

Well, compromising for his mind.

And pulse.

 And him.

“…Aren't the plates on the other side of the kitchen?”

“Well,” Sherlock started thoughtfully. “I remember putting my plate from breakfast in this cabinet yesterday morning because it was in closer reach and therefore more logical.”

“Sometimes, I think about what this place would be like if we didn't have Mrs. Hudson and I shudder.”

Sherlock let out a small laugh “Chaotic.”

“Toxic.”

“Radioactive.”

“A minefield.”

At this point they were both laughing softly, faces inches apart.

A minefield.

One wrong move and it would all blow up in their faces.

But in the end, that was love, wasn't it? Worth the risk.

And explode is what the world did when John Watson reached up to grab the face of and press his lips against those belonging to Sherlock Holmes.

The world stopped spinning.

And exploded.

Like the stars in the wide eyes of the most observant man in the world who hadn't seen what was right in front of him.

Like the dancing heart of the man so acclimatised to loss he had refused to accept a gift when it was given to him.

Sherlock’s lips were soft and pliant, eager to give as much as he received. Slowly closing his eyes and leaning into the shorter man, Sherlock revelled in the exquisite taste of John Watson and pure, unadulterated satisfaction. Or perhaps something else entirely, something new and exciting and wonderful and slightly terrifying that other people called love, something Sherlock knew nothing about.

Any doubts and worries that John had disappeared as soon as he felt Sherlock’s enthusiastic response to the kiss, prompting him to deepen it even further, experimentally swiping his tongue along Sherlock’s lower lip, which elicited a deep, sensual moan from the detective.

They continued to kiss until John gently pulled away, breathing hard, eyes still closed, lip’s almost touching but not quite.

Their foreheads leaned against each other as both took deep breaths, a moment passing before Sherlock tilted his head again, this time to give John a chaste, small kiss on his lips. John smiled into the peck, and Sherlock responded by kissing him again, then again on the cheek, then on the other cheek, before John was being showered by kisses. Forehead, nose, cheek, ear, chin, and finally lips again, this kiss turning into yet another one that felt more like a deep lungful of air, a satisfying sigh, than a desperate gulp.

They broke apart yet again, and their eyes opened to gaze at each other for the first time since their lips connected.

For the first time since they met, really.

“Sherlock.” The name was spoken softly, no more than a breath, really.

“Mmm?”

“Is this… this is alright?”

Sherlock’s expression turned into that look of ‘really, John?’ that his flatmate knew so well.

“Honestly, John, if you don’t think that I requite your feelings completely, I'm not quite sure what else I can do to convince you.”

John giggled at this, which in turn prompted Sherlock to chuckle, until they were both out of breath, one of John’s hands on Sherlock’s shoulder to support him.

“John.”

“Sherlock.”

“I think the pancake is burned.”

“Shit!”

John spun around, and the pancake that had been so perfectly done just minutes earlier was now an unpleasant shade of brown and smelt of sulphur, bad cooking and something that was almost regret but not quite.

“I'm sorry, Sherlock. I know you really wanted pancakes. Shall I start on another one?”

Sherlock grinned at John.

“That is a shame. However, I can think of a way or two you could… make it up to me.”

John smiled back.

“It would be my pleasure.”


End file.
